


And The Silence Shouts “Guilty”

by RottingBirds



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bruises, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, POV Roy Mustang, Protective Roy Mustang, Serious Injuries, not sure if there Is comfort but maybe?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:22:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28946601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RottingBirds/pseuds/RottingBirds
Summary: Roy stares with a mix of wonder and horror at the crumpled form of his subordinate clinging onto one of the columns framing the entrance to his apartment building. He’s using it to prop himself up. Has his back pressed into it, leaving blood on the space where his head rests. It’ll stain, he’s sure. A dark, ugly mark someone will have to scrub away later.His fingers itch at the thought of soap suds, tap water, and dry skin.“What are you doing here?”
Relationships: Edward Elric & Roy Mustang
Comments: 4
Kudos: 75





	And The Silence Shouts “Guilty”

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings!!: Implied torture and description of injuries.
> 
> Can be read for either 03 or FMAB

The lamp on his desk flickers every so often and the shadow his hand casts onto the paper, wet with fresh ink shrinks in size each time. 

He’s taken his paperwork home with him today. Usually the military doesn’t allow it (something along the lines of not wanting to leak information) but Roy’s gotten just lucky enough to get a batch of relatively unimportant documents that needed signing and not anything classified. 

He chews absentmindedly on the cap of his pen.

The night is quiet, and Roy is tired.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Somebody is ringing for his door. The snow falls slowly outside his window. Roy gets up and goes to the first floor. 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The air that pushes past Roy’s lips is visible between them, crystallized and transparent against the light filtering in from the streetlamps.

The snow is red. 

Flecked, soaked in patches. The deep impressions of an automail footprint dragged towards his door. 

Roy stares with a mix of wonder and horror at the crumpled form of his subordinate clinging onto one of the columns framing the entrance to his apartment building. He’s using it to prop himself up. Has his back pressed into it, leaving blood on the space where his head rests. It’ll stain, he’s sure. A dark, ugly mark someone will have to scrub away later. 

His fingers itch at the thought of soap suds, tap water, and dry skin. 

“What are you doing here?”

Fullmetal’s assignment had only been given to him two weeks ago. Roy had chosen it specifically because of its connection to the philosopher's stone, and he had jumped on the chance bright and eager as always. The date of his arrival back in central hasn’t even been marked on Roy’s calendar yet. Even then, Roy knows him well enough to realize that there’s not a chance in hell he’d come back so quickly unless it was a complete dead end. Not Fullmetal, not today, and definitely not half-dead on Roy’s doorstep. 

So _why the hell_ is he here?

Roy stays rooted in the doorframe, barefoot and missing his coat. The winter air bites at his toes with frozen teeth. “Explain yourself,” Roy hisses at him, because if Fullmetal can’t even answer that— _fuck_ he doesn’t know.

A breath. Another. Lungs expanding under the thin material of his shirt. Roy can hear something rattle in Fullmetal’s chest when he breathes, and the puff of air flutters the hair covering his eyes, warm and delicate and—

Oh. 

… That’s different. 

The snow is wet on his feet as Roy takes a step outside. He hesitantly crouches down in front of the kid and grabs a piece of his hair (a strand from the front that’s knotted and tangled). When he twists it in his fingers, it glints gold in the light. 

Gently, he takes Fullmetals cheeks and turns his head and Fullmetal moves easily with him. When Roy gets a good look at the back, he sucks in a sharp inhale—one that’s between his teeth and far more surprised than he intends for it to be.

Fullmetal’s hair is chopped right at the shoulders, uneven and cut shorter in the back. It looks like it had been hacked at by a dull pair of scissors. Roy can’t tell if he did it to himself in a moment of sheer mania or if someone had done it to him. It looks inexperienced, and juvenile, and Fullmetal looks so incredibly _young_ that Roy almost forgets to breathe. The whole of his head is matted with thick, dried layers of blood streaking down the back of neck in rivets of sweat. 

Frigid automail wraps around Roy’s wrist. 

He startles, only for a second before he’s snapped his attention back to Fullmetal’s face. Roy doesn’t attempt to remove his grip on him despite how much he wants to wrench himself away from the burn of cold metal. But he waits. Lets Fullmetal take his other hand off his face and dips his head down. Lets him take a minute until he’s able to speak.

And, after a moment, his eyes slide over, unfocused to meet his own, and he gives Roy a pained smile. 

The lecture dies out in his throat. 

The beat-in mess that is Fullmetal’s face is covered in cuts and bruises. His nose is obviously broken (crooked and coated in dried blood, dark and red. The stark contrast between it and his pale, clammy skin is worrying). There’s a cut on his cheek that Roy thinks might need stitches, and right above the laceration his eye has swollen shut, purple veins spidering out from the contusion.

“Hey, Colonel. Head injuries’re always worse than they actually are. Nose is the spot I’d focus on.” The words are nothing more than spit and incoherent mumbles, and it’s then Roy realizes that Fullmetal has cut part of his tongue. 

He almost goes back inside to slam the door on him.

But that’s not the type of person he’s built himself up to be (god, Hawkeye would so kill Roy if he actually did) and it’s not the person he _wants_ to be. 

So, instead he sighs, hooks his arms under Fullmetal, and carries him into his goddamn house. 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

As soon as Roy lays him out on the kitchen floor, Fullmetal is shifting the fabric of the towel Roy’s laid out for him and clenches it tightly between his fingers. The knuckles of his flesh hand are split and scabbed over. 

_Who the hell was he fighting?_

Roy mauls over the question while he grabs the first aid kit from under the sink. He takes a cloth from a separate drawer and runs it under the sink's faucet. With cold tile digging into his knees, Roy kneels down once he’s back to Fullmetal and he drapes the rag over the hot skin of his forehead.

He’s made a lot of enemies during his years of the military. Scar, homunculi, the military itself. Sometimes Roy has a hard time keeping up with every fight Fullmetal gets himself into. 

But at the same time he also doesn’t think he was any better at his age. Just that the people he chose to fight weren’t as… intense. 

Roy shakes the memory away, and then tries to shake Fullmetal to attention. It takes a minute or two for him to get a response other than a wounded noise at the back of Fullmetal’s throat, but he eventually gets there. Roy considers it his first small victory of the night. 

“Hey,” Roy mumbles when his eyes peel open. Blearily blinking up at him, Fullmetal groans before shutting them again. Roy flicks his forehead and he reluctantly opens them back up. 

“Don’t fall asleep,” Roy says sternly. “Tell me what’s hurt. Depending on your answer, we might not even have to go to a hospital.”

Fullmetal searches his eyes. It takes him a minute to process, but Roy can see him struggling to understand. He’s completely out of it. 

He parts his lips. “I-I think my ribs are bruised,” he finally manages. Quiet, croaky. Jumbled and slurred. Roy stays quiet but takes the washcloth off his forehead and uses it to wipe away the blood crusting his nose. 

Fullmetal turns so Roy can angle himself better before he continues. “There are lots of cuts… yeah, a lot. I tried cleaning ‘em best I could with what I had. Dressed ‘em too. Ankle’s sprained, though.”

Roy frowns. God, he sounds exhausted. Looks it too. He’s got to stop being so reckless. 

“Can you sit up? Or do I have to cut you out of your clothes,” he asks. 

Fullmetal bats Roy’s hand away from his face before rolling his eyes. “No way are you ruining my shit, asshole.” Roy knows he has some weird attachment to that obnoxiously red jacket he’s been carrying on him for the last couple years. In hindsight, it might have been a stupid question to ask. 

But, lost in thought and before Roy can think to stop him, Fullmetal is propping himself on his elbows and wiggling to sit up. 

Shit, that’s not good. “Fullmetal, slow do—“

Roy’s cut off by a sharp gasp. 

Idiot. 

He shoots out and catches Fullmetal by the elbow who’s starting to shudder under his own weight. The new pressure to his ribs blows his eyes wide, face twisting into a nasty expression of pain. If he ducks his head into Roy’s chest to keep himself from falling back down, Roy doesn’t comment on it. Fullmetal also doesn’t ask (doesn’t say thanks either) but Roy helps him the rest of the way up anyways. 

They go slow after that. 

Getting his jacket off is easy enough. Fullmetal never buttons it up so it slips off without much effort, and he gives Roy an overenthusiastic thumbs up once he’s out of it (it somehow manages to be sarcastic), but despite a few bruises, his arm looks relatively okay, so Roy lets the little knot of anxiety in his stomach loosen. 

A hint of gauze peeks out from under the collar of his shirt, and christ, getting the thing off is a slow, agonizing process. It forces Fullmetal to begrudgingly lean on Roy for support. 

Some of the bandages Fullmetal had mentioned using from before peel with the shredded, black material. The shirt is beyond ruined. At this point he thinks cutting Fullmetal out of it would’ve been a less painful process, so once it’s off, Roy tosses it to the side with no intention of picking it up. Fullmetal reaches out and fists his hand around the corner of Roy’s shirt. 

Wiping his hands off on the towel, Roy leans back and sighs. Fullmetal watches as he stretches his arms above his head and relaxes into the loud pop of joints, releasing the ache of building tension. The tight grip Fullmetal has pulls at Roy’s shirt and the material stretches out.

Roy let’s himself smile. If he’s allowed to he’d like to count this as his second victory. 

He rolls his neck, cracks his fingers, and looks back down to nod at the gauze. “Ready to get those things off?” Fullmetal gives a slow, affirming nod back.

Roy starts peeling back the layers. They’re sticky with blood, and when he strips them from Fullmetal’s chest a few reopen, scabs coming off with the bandages. Roy is trying to take care to not irritate the wounds he’s exposing but the more skin that’s exposed, the more concerned he gets, and the quicker he goes. 

Fullmetal bites his lip. 

And, after everything is removed—bandages, patches, bandaids—Roy sits, and stares, and doesn’t say a word. His jaw aches with how hard he’s working it 

The mess of bandages reek. He trashes them. They have to be days old by now, soaked in discolored fluids and brown blood that comes off in flakes. He has the urge to cover his nose with his sleeve. Fullmetal seems to be making a point of not looking over at him. Theres no way he’s not dealing with an infection. 

Something fills Roy’s chest and he pushes it down before it can rear its head (it feels like anger. Tastes like something worse).

He sets his jaw. “I’m taking you to a hospital.” He says simply, and Fullmetal grimaces. The placidity is gone, and Roy is a little more than pissed. They’ve both known each other long enough for Fullmetal to tell it’s an order. They’ve also known each other long enough for him to realize this isn’t something he can get out of with a well told lie. 

Roy has to remind himself that he is not Fullmetal’s friend, or his nurse, or whatever unknown thing it is that made him come over in the first place. They aren’t allowed that. Not him and Fullmetal. They are military, they are dogs, and Roy is placed in charge of him by construct. That’s all. 

He hardens his voice and grabs a bottle of disinfectant. Scowls and asks, 

“What the hell happened to you.”

Fullmetal doesn’t move. 

Roy narrows his eyes. “ _Now._ ”

Fullmetal shrugs and doesn’t meet his gaze. His avoidance isn’t very successful since he’s still clinging to Roy’s shirt with one hand. As soon as he notices, he wrenches it off and brings it cradles it to his chest. He fixes his gaze and starts toying with a scab on his knuckle. Roy has the strong urge to slap his hand away. His nose twitches. “Ran into one of those Homunculus out in New Optain,” Fullmetal mutters. 

That makes Roy sit up straight. “You _what?_ ” Fullmetal cringes back again at the radiating anger like it burns. Roy can care less. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me? Call? Something!” He practically snarls. 

“I don’t know, it didn't cross my mind,” Fullmetal waves a hand in the air between them and tries to get Roy to back off. He ducks his head. “They-they had Al, y’know? I had to switch with him, they were messing with his transmutation circle. He was going to die, you fucking bastard!”

His voice is strained, and raw, and Roy might just strangle him.

“I’m not going to be the reason he dies. If I have to get tortured or-or beat I’ll do it. I’d rather die, Al would be fine without me. He has Winry, and Granny—hell, even _you’d_ do—there’s no fucking way I’m living witho—“

Roy cuts him off with a forceful shove to his shoulder. Fullmetal hisses. “That isn’t the point, idiot! Did you have time between first seeing them and first fighting them?” 

He stutters, quiets, and the silence shouts guilty. Roy is reaching his limits. 

“And that doesn’t sound like a situation where you might ask for my help!” He bursts. 

Roy grabs his wrist—the automail one—and wrenches it towards him. 

The relationship between those two is something he understands. _More_ than understands. He gets it, has had it for far longer than Fullmetal knows. It’s ingrained in his being. Roy might not have blood relations with any of them but Hawkeye, Hughes, and every other friend he’s gotten through his path to the top is closer to family than the one who birthed him twenty nine years ago. 

He’d die for any one of them and he wouldn’t hesitate. Can’t dream of a situation where he'd choose otherwise. But that doesn’t mean he’d be willing to end his miserable life if there was another option. 

“Is Al safe.” His hand trembles around Fullmetal’s wrist.

“Yes.”

“Then look at me.”

Fullmetal meets his eyes. 

And, as Roy stares at him, blood matted in his hair, cuts on his torso that are deep enough that any normal person would’ve kicked it by now—that bubble with pus, red and inflamed (Roy is familiar with the glimpse of scaring trauma budding another flower in the anguished garden of his chest, because _god_ the military is fucked up for letting someone as young as him in (something pangs in his heart. Roy knows it’s become a sick routine every dog finds their place in. Throw them in a war and make them murderers. Let Fullmetal qualify, toss a child into the mix and allow him the title of Major))), not for the first time since meeting him Roy is reminded that even if Fullmetal is a State Alchemist, he’s still just a kid. 

And that fucking look on his face. Roy _hates_ it. 

Because he’s seen it in Hawkeye when she pulled him down, drew her gun and fired at a wooden crate that had fallen from its stack, loud, splintering. Seen it in Armstrong on each anniversary celebrating the end of the war. Something old and haunted that follows them all like a death sentence. Roy’s seen it and felt it in himself everyday of his life; hands gripping bathroom sinks and memories of Ishval playing like the scratched music records from the brothel he grew up in. 

Perhaps Fullmetal hasn’t been a kid in a long time. 

“Do you trust me?” He clenches his teeth and doesn’t let go. 

Fullmetal looks down at the grip Roy has on him, swollen eye squinted shut. “Yes,” he grits out again. The scab he’d picked at hangs off the skin. 

“Then next time you pull a stunt like that, _call me._ I’m not going to let you or your brother die, got it? Not as long as I’m still your commanding officer, and not as long as you’re still under my care.”

Fullmetal is not stupid, he’s resourceful, and Roy knows it. “You find another way,” he growls, and tightens his grip on the kid when he replies,

“I can’t do that.”

“You will.”

His eyes flash with that annoyingly familiar look that says he’s made a decision and plans to stick with it. “I said _I can’t._ ” Fullmetal rips from his grasp. 

“There’s no guarantee you’ll be able to do anything, and I sure as hell am not going to drag you into these situations because of a mistake on my part. I get that you’re legally my guardian or whatever but that doesn’t mean shit to me. Al is my brother. He’s _mine._ You aren’t our dad, and we sure as hell aren’t your kids.”

He grabs the roll of bandages from the first aid kit and shoves it into Roy’s chest.

“Anyways, if you can doctor me up already, that would be great.” He spits. His words still slur together but the bite is there.

Roy glares at him, runs his fingers through his hair and gives the kid a knowing look. “This isn’t a request. Fine, I’m not your dad, but I still rank higher than you and you still report directly to me.” Roy gathers the supplies in his arms before Fullmetal can let them fall. 

“This is an order. You don’t get to complain.”

And it’s left at that. Fullmetal doesn’t respond, but Roy isn’t asking him too. He’s smart. Knows the edge in Roy’s voice, and knows the punishment for not following through will be worse than whatever any homunculus can throw at him. Even if Fullmetal isn’t a fan of the military he still follows its hierarchy like every other asshole unlucky enough to join. Laps at his superiors heels and drinks from open palms. Licks up any morsel of food thrown at him, thrashes against his leash. 

He knows Roy is the line between getting him and his brothers bodies back and complete hopelessness. He’ll follow any goddamn rule Roy gives him, and Roy is good to keep it that way for now. 

So, when Roy finishes cleaning up his wounds and stitching his skin back together, he helps Fullmetal up on shaky legs and silently walks him past his living room. Walks him down the steps of the building's porch, and into his car (the towel they leave behind is caked in blood). 

Roy drives him to the hospital, and doesn’t leave until it’s morning. 


End file.
